


Fingers to the head, pointed like a gun

by crookedspoon



Series: A Fool's Legacy [2]
Category: Batman: Arkham Knight
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Game(s), Random Thug Dialogue, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-18 21:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8176436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: There are sightings of the Red Hood alongside Harley Quinn, making a name for himself in Gotham's underground. Dick seems to always be one step behind, egged on by Oracle's words in his ear: "Jason's alive, Dick. He's in pain. You have to bring him home."





	1. Our veins are busy but my heart's in atrophy

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is the beginning of a story I've been carrying around with me since July/August of 2015, ever since wondering where the hell Harley was at while Joker was torturing poor Jason. (She'd already been Harley Quinn then.) Since I posted a sort of prequel/companion to this chapter last October, I thought now would be a good time to follow up on it. 
> 
> In the interest of fairness, I have to advise you not to wait for updates. As of yet, I plan for one update per year. Chapter 2 will deal with Jason, and Dick will show up in chapter 3. That much I can tell. But beyond that, the story is a huge tangle requiring a lot of consideration and research that I won't have time for this year. Still, if you choose to read on, I hope you enjoy! :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After everything that's went down, Harley has lost her reason to live. Until a new one falls right into her lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains coarse language replete with objectification and misogyny.
> 
> Many thanks to Neurotoxia for the quick beta, handholding, and letting me bounce ideas around.

Gotham is eerily quiet at night. A graveyard kind of quiet, not that of a breath held in anticipation for something more to come, something better, as if the city was grieving the loss of its protector but expected his return. The city is plain grieving. Mr. J would have known how to make a joke out of that.

Without car alarms wailing in the distance, windows shattering, or screams piercing this blanket of silence, Gotham sounds empty, devoid of life, like everyone has fled for good. Perhaps there are no more cars to demolish, no more windows to smash, or people to attack. Perhaps everyone really has gone. 

They all do in the end. They all leave.

"I don't get what's up with Harley," one of her goons says. Boots scuff against the floorboards, fabric rustles, lighters click. Inside, it's not so quiet after all. Not everyone has left yet.

"Yeah, you know something's up with the boss lady when she ain't flirtin with ya," another one answers.

"She ain't never flirted with me."

"That's cuz you just ain't her type."

"Oh? But you are?" There's a scraping of chairs, as if they're poised to fight.

"It's scary, man," a third cuts in, before a scuffle could ensue. "How depressed she's become. Haven't seen her that way since the Joker died."

"It's serious this time."

"It's all wrong is what it is. We're sittin' ducks. We shouldn't be hiding out here. We should be expanding! Carving out new territories."

Coughing and murmured agreement.

"He's right. Who knows how long the big guys are gonna stay locked up. Once they're out. they'll want their share of the cake again, so we gotta act fast."

"Let's not forget about Black Mask. Guy's already occupying the harbor. _He's_ not slowin' down and waitin' for a better opportunity to present itself , so why should we?"

"Give her some space, man. She snapped out of it last time too, and then we got back into business."

"Did you forget we only got back into business _this time_ because of that old dude she claimed was the Joker? Like, apart from the fact that that's crazy, what are the odds of that happenin' again?"

"You mean her finding another Joker?"

"Yeah." More scratching of chairs and scuffling of boots. There's as much restlessness in their bones as there's emptiness in her heart. This could never be reconciled.

"Maybe she should just make one if that's what it takes."

"You think she was bangin' him?"

"Who?"

"The old dude."

A cacophony of disgusted noises. "Gross!" "Ew!" "What is wrong with you?"

"Don't worry, guys," someone steers the conversation into safer waters. "She'll find some other deluded fool who'll put a bug in her ear and then we're rocking again."

But another rips the rudder around. "You mean someone who's gonna give her the D." Raucous laughter.

"I volunteer!" More laughter, more volunteers.

Harley's aware of what they're saying. About her. About what she should and shouldn't be doing. Always the same complaints. Think she can't hear them. They're like quarreling parents in that way.

"I don't _care_ what's crawled up Harley's ass this time. The bitch needs to get a grip and get out there, kick some ass. Else I'm gonna have to do it for her."

She doesn't need to hear the words to know what they are thinking. It's in their voices. On their faces, too, when she does venture out of her room for a change. Their heads lift in anticipation, expectation, yes, entitlement even. They demand action. When she shuffles past like she was caught in a snowdrift, unhindered and unheeding, there's disappointment, disbelief, resentment. It's surprising that they stick around despite their many losses, their many setbacks and casualties, their lack of leadership. 

What is it they're getting out of this? What are they promising themselves? Is it the money? Are they waiting around for her to dole out what she owes them before they set out for more lucrative shores? Black Mask's drug operation has been expanding aggressively, like an ulcer on the back of Gotham. He sure could use the manpower. 

It's not loyalty that makes them stay. 

It's always been money, or some misguided hope of filling Mr. J's shoes.

Some stay devoted, some don't. There are altercations. Disagreements about the management. What you'd expect when there's a power vacuum. Everyone wants to grab the top position.

"I keep telling ya," one of her grunts raises his voice above the others. "We should just dump her and take control of the Jokerz ourselves. Rob some banks while we're at it. With the Bat gone, it will be easy pickings. That little birdboy of his can't be everywhere at once."

Another one scoffs. "And who's gonna lead us? You?"

"Why not?" 

"Yeah, right. You remember what happened to Paulie?"

"That was the Joker, not Harley. What's she gonna do? Cry me to death?"

"You might wanna watch out what you say." A cap pops and clatters to the floor, as if it were a warning and not a testament to their distraction, their discontent and disorganization. Drinking beer and complaining about the boss. She wouldn't be surprised if there were a pub in front of her door, complete with barkeep and stools. Certainly smells like one already.

"Why? Because she can hear me? I ain't afraid of her. If she's got a problem with the way I talk, I'll answer to her. But she'd first have to step out of her stinking cell first. And I ain't seein' that happenin' anytime soon."

"She still owes us money. The way I figure, everyone else is in the slammer and won't likely be out any time soon so Harley's your best bet for scoring a job."

"If she ever gets a grip again, maybe."

"Cut her some slack, man." There's a cushioned impact, like the back of a hand hitting a bomber jacket.

"And who cuts me some slack? She ain't the only one who's lost the Joker, you know."

Loud guffawing answers him. "So you were in love with him too, huh? Can't remember Joker visiting you nights."

"I'm just sayin'. It ain't easy for any of us."

"Speak for yourself."

"He's right, man. Ain't the same without the Joker."

Harley's aware what they're saying, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore. She just wishes they would stop talking.

She was never meant to lead these guys. Not alone, anyhow. 

_She's a lackey at heart, I can tell._

Christina's voice burns in her tear ducts, but produces nothing more than a raw sensation. Harley wants to cry and sob and throw her arms towards high heaven, wants everyone to see her grief, but no longer has the energy to go through the motions. She rolls her head to the side, away from the pain in her chest. She lies crumpled on the floor like a corpse dumped into wet tarmac, like a worn rag doll, tossed into the trash because its owner-child is dead, or worse yet, grown up.

(Mr. J used to leave her like that sometimes. Her ribs ache to remember but her heart aches worse.)

Her arm feels like jelly when she lifts it and spreads her fingers against the only illumination in the room. In the corner, a JokerTV statue is replaying a grainy clip of her puddin' talking into the camera, talking to her, to Bats, to a traitor, she doesn't know. The sound is busted. Nothing but static comes out of its glowing head, its usually soothing lull now abrasive. It casts vague shadows in the otherwise dark room, with its drapes pulled against the chill. The candles she lit have long since drowned in their own tears. Part of her is disappointed. Part of her had expected the velvets to catch fire and burn everything to the ground, herself included. Fire would be cleansing the pain, turning it inside out. Like the barren dragon queen, she'd rise from it unharmed, safe for her blackened heart, charred beyond recognition, all its pieces turned into a single lump of coal, mended at last.

It's a classic story. _The king died and then the queen died out of grief and their kingdom is ashes._

She rolls to her side, pulling her knees in but not taking her eyes off Mr. J's smile between her fingertips. These recordings are everything she has of him. Her other hand scratches the fabric of the corset that's not tight enough to tie off the phantom ache in her abdomen. She couldn't even give him a child, that's how useless she was. Nothing to remember him by save for images of the past and a ragtag bunch of grunts who'd sooner dethrone her than wait till Gotham is taken over by anyone that ain't them.

Her fingers close around her puddin's face on the monitor, as if she could pluck him from it and bring him back to life. The Bat's death had been a media event her puddin's never was. The stations and papers went on and on about Batman's no longer secret identity, about how everyone should have known, about how some of them had always known, about the future of Wayne Enterprises whose stocks had taken a nosedive after the exposure, and about the future of the Batkids he left behind. There'd been inquiries and speculations about their identities at first, but even that has lost its appeal in the face of the mystery of the exploding manor. (Perhaps Sherlock Holmes might have been able to solve this one.)

Not a word about Ivy or her new Mr. J or the cute Jokers B-man had so offensively termed knock-offs. They were never knock-offs to her. They were a legacy and she'd been in love with all of them.

She should have known. She should have known what was going to happen, what always happens when the Bat got involved. She should have taken the Jokers by the scruff and run away with them while she could. Not that they would have listened. Not that they would have passed up the chance to play with the Bat. Henry had his plan all figured out, and it sounded so exciting. What could possibly have gone wrong? Oh, you know, the usual. She shouldn't have listened to that sweet, old fool.

Why did he have to have to kill himself? And the other ones, too? She could have loved all of them equally, not only the prime specimen. Although, truth be told, she's not sure she could have loved Batman as the new Joker. There'd been too much bad blood between them. But if he'd been anything like the other Jokers, then maybe she could have ignored the looks she hated so much because they'd been the looks of someone who'd continually hurt her puddin', who'd been responsible for her puddin's death.

She shouldn't have listened. Shouldn't have gone along with the plan. Of course, arguing with Mr. J never did prove useful and go along was all she _could_ do. And it did sound like so much fun. The look on B-man's face when Henry revealed himself should have been worth all the trouble that came before. But not at the expense of the other Jokers. Not at the expense of Henry himself.

Pain seized her anew.

She'd imagined walking out of Panessa Studios with four Jokers and leaving the dead bodies of Batman and his bird wonder behind. Little did she know it would be Batman and birdboy who'd walk out of there, if not together then at least both alive, and she'd be left to cry over the dead bodies of her loved ones. She didn't even know what happened to them after that. All she can do is guess that they'd been cremated like her puddin', without so much as an obituary or a place for her to mourn.

Another time she might have risen against this unfair treatment in the media. People needed to remember her puddin', needed to know what his blood had created and what Gotham was spared due to their untimely demise. They needed to remember Ivy too, and know of her sacrifice, how she'd saved all of them, even after they'd treated her like nothing more than a common criminal and not like the gift that she was. (It pains her all the more that she'd taken her friend, lover and confidante for granted so many times, that they went their separate ways after their last fight, and that she never got to communicate how much Ivy meant to her.)

How was she supposed to go on living if there was no one to go on living for? True, Kitty Cat is still out there somewhere, but she has never been the most reliable in an emotional crisis. Ivy alone had managed to build her up after her puddin's death that first time. Ivy, and the promise of revenge. Great revenge plan that turned out to be, foiled as it had been before it came to fruition. This time, there would be no one to stop her, just as there would be no one to exact her revenge upon. She could go after Birdboy as thanks for last time, but he just ain't worth the trouble.

Nothing is worth the trouble anymore. All she can do now is wait to die and join her puddin' in the afterlife.

If there weren't her goons to consider and appease.

Heavy boots shake up the floorboards. Rifles are cocked in response. 

"Where's the boss lady?" a newcomer asks, out of breath.

"Where do you _think_ she is?" 

"Uh..."

"The boss lady doesn't wanna be disturbed," another goon pipes up.

"How'd you know? You talk to her?"

"What do you want with her anyway? Last time I saw her, she didn't look like wanting to talk much."

"We got somethin' for her we think she'd wanna see."

"If you want a bat to you head, be my guest. But I wouldn't go anywhere near Harley when she's in that mood."

"What mood? She doesn't _do_ anything except lie around all day."

"Still, can't be too careful with that one. One moment she's crying on your shoulder, lamenting Joker's death an' makin' you feel sorry for her, next she's rammin' a knife down your throat."

A slant of light slices the darkness of her room as the door creaks open. Harley shields her eyes. There's snickering from beyond and a murmured "here it comes" abruptly cut off, elbow to ribs. Their bomber jackets swish.

"Boss?" A thug pokes his painted head through the door.

" _What?!_ " she snaps. The force of her anger rips her upright. Can't even mourn in peace these days. Nothing's within arm's reach to throw, so she reaches into her boot.

The oblong of light thins to a sliver before the knife twangs in the wood. The force of it knocks free its twin she'd embedded there earlier this week. It scrapes across the floor as the door opens again. There's hooting on the other side. "What did I tell ya?"

"We, uh, we got a present for you. Something you need to see."

"Unless it's the Bat trussed up and hung from the ceiling like a piñata I don't want to know about it," she says and sinks back to the floor.

"It's not the Bat but it's pretty close."

Harley doesn't want to move but the grunt insists. It's been too long since they got any action around here. The guys thirst for violence. She can't blame them. She hasn't been a good crime boss in a very long time.

Rolling to the side, she pushes herself up and over to the corner where her Bat-bat is propped against the wall. That should do it for some piñata-popping. She's too weak to heft it so she lets it trail across the floor. With the dirt underfoot, it sounds like gravel over grindstones. She may have been more curious at one time, but a residue's still there. Apparently curiosity ain't something you grow out of easily. And if this ain't worth her time, there's enough someones to make suffer for disturbing her.

They take her down two flights of stairs and along some corridors. She follows blindly, as spots dance across her vision and all she can do is not succumb to the vertigo. She hasn't eaten, hasn't moved in days and her circulation is now getting back at her for her neglect.

When they open a gray, unmarked door, she sees him. Suspended in the middle of the room is the guy who'd been responsible for a lot of the chaos and warfare on Gotham's streets. His militia had been clogging them, and as many of her men had turned up dead or gravely wounded. He'd been in Scarecrow's ears from the get-go, allowing the Bat to roam free in a concerted and convoluted effort to bring him to his disgraced knees once and for all.

And he was still in his full armor.

"You left his armor on?" she asks. "Are you stupid or do you just wanna get hurt?"

She doesn't know if her guys had been scared to touch him overly much, afraid he might wake any second and take them out, or if they actually forgot what guys like him are capable of, that they needed to be stripped of every advantage they had. At least they'd stripped him of any overt weapon, but she bets there's at least as many still hidden in secret compartments in his armor. Sorry, guys. No bonus points for you.

Still, all they wanted to do was give her some treat, something to be excited about. And it worked.

"Thanks, guys. I do appreciate the gift."

She moves closer and prods him with her bat. He's out cold. Time to make him pay for some of the shit he's put them through.

"Hey, Knight freak." She knocks against his shiny red helmet. His head rolls away from her bat. Good, he's awake. Maybe he's even listening. "Did ya think that new helmet would fool me? And what's with the Batsymbol?" She prods some more, his chest this time where he'd scrawled the trademark symbol of the guy he'd claimed to hate. "You on his side now?"

Wouldn't that take the cake? If he'd been working together with the Bat and only manipulated Scarecrow into thinking he'd had the upper hand. Poor Crane, the blubbering fool. 

"Was it all just lies?"

He's trembling, struggling against his bonds. His head jerks up as she takes a swing at him with all the glee of a child hitting a piñata (all that seduction and that sweetness promised), with all the grief of a lover left behind, and the pain of someone who's all alone in the world.

"This is all your fault!"

He swings himself to the side. She misses him by an inch. Where she fails to hit him, her henchmen are not far behind to compensate.

"Get him!" they cry and deal out blows like candy. It's riveting to watch. Less because they hurt him, and more because he's _moving,_ curling over their heads and taking them out one after the other. He's quick. Not just fast – agile. He's not thinking about his next move. He's just making it. He's been trained well. It's exhilarating. The rapid fire of the machine guns is like applause to her ears.

And there's something about his motions. Something familiar. 

With the force of an epiphany, she realizes why she's elated. It's not because of the violence – which would have been as good a guess as any – but because she _knows_ those moves. She's warded them off often enough, so long ago.

"Stop shooting," she yells before any other thought comes to her. "Stop it, all of you."

He—it can't be.

She walks towards him on wobbling legs, and he must have heard her, because he stops beating her goons. He looks at her, as if recognition was dawning on him too. Her bat clatters to the ground as she stretches out her quaking fingers toward his helmet, needing to confirm.

She's mere inches from the revelation when a red dot zigzags over his torso. Her body flinches as if hit itself when the shot rings out.

"What are you doing?" she screeches and rushes forward to support him. "I told you to stop."

The Arkham Knight goes down on one knee and almost falls into her arms.

"No, no, no, please, no." Please, this can't be happening _again._ Hasn't she lost enough people dear to her? Must she lose him again, if it is indeed him?

Her fingers scuttle over his helmet, searching for the safety catch. She has to know. She's caught between wishing it's him and wishing it ain't. Her throat constricts when his visor opens. She cannot quite believe it.

"Junior!" she breathes out and her thumb strokes the familiar letter branded into his cheek. "Junior, it's really you."

Shock, relief and love all wash over her in equal measures as she takes off the helmet. His bangs are sweat-slick beneath her fingers and she smoothes them out of his handsome face, so she can have a better look at her boy. Gathering him in her arms, she kisses the 'J' beneath his eye over and over, taken with the onslaught of emotion she had believed dead like all her loved ones. 

"Oh God, I thought I'd lost you." She's babbling now, oblivious to her men crowding around, curious about the spectacle. "When I couldn't find you after the chaos at Arkham, I thought you didn't make it. I checked Blackgate, the hospitals, everywhere the other inmates ended up in, but you were—you were gone. He said you must've met your maker. And that it wasn't my fault. But it was. It was. I'm sorry, I should have kept looking, shouldn't have _listened,_ should've known you were still out there. Arkham couldn't keep you down."

He chokes out dry laughter, and it rattles through him like electricity. She cradles him, buffering the tremors and rocking him gently.

"It's okay now," she whispers soothingly, letting him know he no longer needs to fear. He's safe now. "I've got you. I'll fix you up again. Just like old times, okay? I'll make it right. Oh, my poor darling, it's all gonna be alright from now on. Nothing's gonna happen to you anymore. I promise."

He clutches her sleeve so hard he nearly rips the fabric and buries howls of pain against her chest. Her eyes are stinging and her voice is breaking but she manages to snap at her useless goons with some shred of authority. 

"What are you standing around here for? Get me something to dress the wounds with. Pronto!"

It's for the good of her poor boy, after all. Her poor boy who has suffered so much, who has lost so much. Who has returned to her in the darkest time of her life, a little flickering candle threatening to go out if she doesn't do anything soon. Oh, he's tough, her boy, but she's still afraid. She just got him back. She can't go losing him already. It wouldn't be fair.

His pained noises die down and his fingers uncurl as he slips into unconsciousness. At least she hopes that's what it is, exhaustion and agony taking their toll on him.

"No no no, stay with me." She slaps his face, but too gently, it's hardly more than a pat on the cheek. "Don't fall asleep on me now."

As she bends over his inert body, she can't help herself. A nervous giggle builds in the back of her throat. She's filled with so much love and joy and helplessness, she doesn't know where to pack it all. The bullet had torn through his armor as if it hadn't been there in the first place. The jagged hole is leaking blood. Harley's no surgeon and there are no guarantees, not with abdominal wounds. This is what she gets for telling her grunts always to aim for maximum damage.

If she weren't so hysterical, she'd be laughing about the irony of it, but then she notices she is. She _is_ laughing and sobbing and sheltering him, willing him not to die.

"Oh, puddin', why do you keep sending me gifts from beyond only to take them away again? Do you have to be that cruel even in death?"

"Now she's gone completely gone off the rails," one of her thugs comments, dumbfounded.

"Nah, she's just happy."

"How can you tell?" 

"You know who that guy is? Look closely. You were there. You oughta remember."

"Oh, you mean that mark on his face. Yeah, that one rings a bell. It was right before the Asylum, right?"

"Yeah, he was just a kid back then and Joker's pet project. Really did a number on him. Wouldn't have imagined him to grow up leading his own militia one day."

"Wouldn't have expected him to survive this long in the first place."

"Yeah, kid's one stubborn son of a bitch."

"That's not even what I meant. The way I heard it, Deathstroke was supposed to take care of him."

"Wait, but Deathstroke was working for him, wasn't he? At least, I heard some guys mention he was driving one of the Knight's tanks when the Bat got to him."

"Could have been stolen."

Harley has enough of this idle chatter. "Quit yer jabberin' and make yourselves useful, you idiots," she snarls. "Get me some blankets. A table. _Anything._ "

Her grunts snap to action. They may be a disorganized bunch off the battlefield, but they know how important treatment is when you want to survive your wounds. Good for them. Right now, it's best for them to follow her orders to a T if they want to survive _Harley._ If she finds another idiot twiddling his thumbs while her boy might be dying, she's gonna make their life miserable. If her boy doesn't make it, neither will they.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did rewrite some of Harley's babbling here, because when I posted ash & agony, the Arkham Knight: Genesis issue #4 hadn't come out yet. That one painted a different backstory than what I'd had in mind for them, but in the end, I'm just taking pointers, not adapting the whole thing.
> 
> Chapter title from "Sedated" by Hozier.


	2. So we're slaves to any semblance of touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley cures Jason and they have a heart to heart about her treatment of him, among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, basically I wanted to post this chapter today, because Friday 13 felt like a fitting date (and because I have been wanting to get it out of my hair since the 1st). I had posted the first part of this to tumblr on Oct 1 and had been hoping to get around to writing the rest sooner. (Not like I had a year before that to write it, hah!) But basically most of the rest was written today, with the few notes I'd taken last year and the year before, so I'm not entirely sure it makes sense, although Neurotoxia didn't mention anything during her spot-check.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with this story! See you in a year for the next update!

The liquid is a poisonous green, almost glowing as if radioactive, the kind of color Mr. J would have approved of, even sought out in a concoction of his own making. 

Could this be a sign? If it is, this vial of toxic waste inspires more confidence in its promised effect than it should. Harley grips it tighter, holding it against her chest, as if to pour into it all the senseless, screaming hopes she clutches in her broken heart, willing this to work.

"That does so not look healthy," a goon comments.

Harley ignores him; she has no time to spare. Her boy doesn't look healthy either.

Before her, Jason is wan and trembling despite the many layers he's wrapped in. The bullet had shredded into him and dented his armor so that it curved into the wound, ripping it open. It's a miracle he's still alive. She'd managed to extract the shell fragments but couldn't do anything about the blood loss. The hospitals are overrun and their blood banks are draining fast. She's sent her thugs to fetch some bags without causing any more bloodshed, but her boy has already bled through anything compatible. Last time she checked, his wound was infected and the skin around it discolored. He is bleeding internally and she has no way to stop it.

There really ain't much to think about. She'd exhausted any other option. This vial of what looks like cartoonishly contaminated reactor water is her only shot. (Under different circumstances, she would have patted herself on the back for the unintended pun. In this situation, however, her only course of action was just that: to act.)

She drains the liquid into his bloodstream and prays. How many more miracles would she be granted? She doesn't deserve any more, yet her boy does. He must survive this. 

He must.

She dares not breathe in the moments that follow, afraid she might disturb the universe at work if she moved – afraid she'd miss any sign of improvement. Irrationally, she's disappointed when, after several heartbeats, there is none, even though she knows these things take time. Never mind that she'd been promised immediate return to health.

So far, nothing.

If this were Grey's Anatomy or some other TV show, she'd expect a heart monitor to beep dramatically and doctors to come rushing in, a bustle of activity to save her boy's life. But she doesn't have the luxury of medical equipment to announce a flatline, and even if she had, she wouldn't believe it anyway.

All she can do now is wait. Praying is for suckers. (She doesn't believe in these things anymore, but somehow she's convinced that if she asked for her boy's life, whatever higher power is in charge of these things might kill him just to spite her.)

It's excruciating.

And she's growing so tired, the high tension of the past days taking their toll.

She is about to sag into a seat beside the makeshift operating table, when he spasms and sits bolt upright. His eyes flash at her for a second, insanely wide and eerily phosphorescent.

Her guys seem to sense danger, because they rush to pull her away from him. Bad decision. Her boy catches sight of the movement and jumps at them like a feral cat, all claws and rapid action. By any normal standard of recuperation, he shouldn't be able to tear through them like that, twisting out of grips, leaping over heads and punching with his whole body. Part of her imagines his stitches to be popping from the strain and his wound to be spitting blood.

But mostly, she's overjoyed to see him up and running. Even if he's running her guys to the ground.

It takes four of them to subdue him. They're lucky her boy is still weak, lucky that he seems to be out of his mind, because otherwise he wouldn't be just reacting, he'd be calculating his moves and then what chance would they have against him? Yet there's so much unconscious anger rolling off of him, making him strong, it's a surprise they manage to pin him down at all.

It's kind of a repetition of their first encounter, with Jason beating up her thugs and Harley screaming at them to just let him go. She's struggling against them, even as she's giddy that he's still alive – that he seems to have survived the dose of what looked like something that would surely kill him. But he's nowhere near over the worst of it, and she needs to check on him, needs to make sure that now he has a chance, needs to make sure they haven't blown it already by taking him down.

She rips herself free with the strength of a lioness protecting her cub, and shoves her goons out of the way.

"What are you doing, you idiots?" she shouts at them. "Get away from him."

There's a dart sticking out of her boy's neck and he's slowly succumbing to the tranquilizer that was no doubt in it. At least, she hopes so, for their sakes.

"Who did this?"

No one answers. Smart. If he doesn't make it because whatever they administered doesn't agree with that supposed cure, none of them will leave this building alive.

She's had it with false hopes and losing her loved ones. Can't she catch a break already?

With trembling hands, she strokes his cheeks, assures him that it's going to be okay, that she'll be waiting for him to wake up. 

His eyes roll back and close, and his body softens as if he's heard her and can relax now that he knows it's fine, she'll be there.

She needs another moment to catch her breath and gather herself before she rolls up the hem of his plain shirt, something she'd provided him with after taking off his battered armor. It's spotty with red where he'd bled through his bandages. He's been going through a lot of those; she barely did anything other than exchange them for new ones.

Now, as she takes them off again, she's prepared to see fresh blood oozing her way as soon as she lifts the compression. But there's nothing. Not a single fresh drop. All she sees are dried flakes on closed skin where an ugly, discolored wound should be.

His thigh is the same: closed up, hole-less, healed.

She can't believe it. She'd been promised immediate results, but this went beyond what she could have imagined. And Harley can imagine a _lot._

She leans over him, hand bracing on his chest and ear hovering above his mouth. His heartbeat is strong and calm, his breath steady and relaxed.

Tears sting her eyes. 

"He's safe," she whispers. Her boy is safe.

They did it. She barely dared hope, but they really did it.

She can't help herself. She's brimming with joy and jumps into the air. The guys around her jump too, and take a wary step backwards. With a happy squeak, she leaps into the arms of the nearest thug, who catches her, bewildered. He's a tall one and _built,_ but she twirls him around like he weighed no more than a paper doll. The pained groans of his peers serve to time the music in her head.

Some stop tending broken bones to watch her, and some manage laughter and jeers when she pulls him down to plant a loud kiss on his bandanna-covered lips. His painted face cycles through a series of expressions, all of them rendered hilarious by his clownish greasepaint.

He curses and rips off his bandanna, as if hoping she'd kiss him again, this time without cloth getting in his way, but she's already shifted her attention to her boy again, wrapping him in blankets he might need now that he's no longer moving.

She can't wait for him to wake again. They have so much catching up to do. God, to think that in all this time she's been fearing for his life she hadn't even once considered preparing a welcome home party for him!

At least now she knows what to do while he rests.

* * *

Jason feels heavy. Sinking. Trapped. As if his body were caught in the dark embrace of a swamp, mud and morass clinging to his arms and legs, sucking him in.

The room is devoid of light and smells of rotten food, mold, and decay. The perfect olfactory accompaniment to a villain's lair. At least Jason still has a sense of humor, he thinks darkly. That means his spirit isn't broken yet.

The echo of footstep is pounding in his head.

No, no, no.

Don't let him come in.

Jason's stomach clenches. Even if his spirit remains strong, his body is a far cry from it. He is hurting and he's not looking forward to another beating.

Tap, tap, tap. The footsteps come to a halt in front of the rusty door, a precursor of pain.

God, please, no. Not again. He hasn't healed since the last time Joker played with him.

_Swallow down the panic. Don't let him see your fear. You're better than this. You can handle this loser._

"Puddin'?" The voice is vague through the whining in his ears, but familiar nevertheless. He's heard it plenty of times before, but never down here. "Are you in there? What are you doin' here all the time? I'm feeling a little left out, ya know."

The door creaks open to admit Harley into the dingy room. He releases a shuddering breath. If she's looking for the clown, it means he's nowhere close and Jason has earned a small reprieve.

Unless she, too, wants to exact revenge on him for whatever Bruce might have done to her. There's no telling how ugly it could get with her. She might not touch him at all, fearing the Joker would react badly to her interfering with his plaything. Or she might dish out the most vicious punishment yet, hoping to earn the clown's favor. It's a toss of the dice, a spin of fortune's wheel, and Jason's luck had run out the moment he set foot on the Asylum's soil.

Still, no matter what she has in mind – and it's no doubt going to be something disturbing – he can't show her any signs of weakness. He may be gagged and bound, but that does not mean he has the disadvantage.

He lifts his head to glare at her and ignores the light stinging in his eyes. They're dry but the pain has them well up and his vision goes blurry. He doesn't need to see, of course, he just needs to look as though he's not intimidated.

And he's not.

She gasps, but it's too much to hope that she's afraid. Who would be afraid of a bruised and bloodied teenager tied to a chair and delirious from dehydration?

Certainly not her.

"Oh my god, puddin'!" she exclaims and rushes toward Jason. She kneels in front of him and he flinches when she runs her fingers through his fringe. "Is this one of Batman's little helpers? Oh, I knew you'd be readying a surprise for me, puddin'."

She sounds delighted to have found him, all wrapped up like a present. Joker never mentioned gifting him to Harley, but who knew what the clown had planned. Jason feels sick.

"We've been trying, you know." She giggles and her thumbs stroke his cheeks above his gag. "For so long. Oh my _God,_ I thought it's never gonna work, but here he was, my sweet puddin', looking for another way all this time."

Something is off about this.

"Ain't he the best?" Her voice distorts and fades out.

He shouldn't be here.

(Of course he shouldn't. He should have listened to Bruce and stayed by his side instead of falling for the Joker's trap.)

Her giggle is what haunts him at night.

His vision tilts.

She's standing in front of him, holding a clamp above a patch of skin, ready to hook him up to a car battery again. The room is brighter, cleaner, a step up from the rotten hole in the ground he was kept in before.

This is later.

"I didn't want to do this at first," she says and despite everything she's done to him (bathe him, feed him, sing to him, break him, soothe him, betray him), despite all of that she still manages to sound apologetic, "but it all makes sense now. You can't ever be mine until I flush B-man out of your system."

When she zaps Jason, it's almost worse than every time Croc or Zsasz or one of the other Arkham inmates used him as a punching bag. He has come to rely on her, for food, for rest, for comfort. He used to spit at her in the beginning, kicked and bit and headbutted her, hurled abuse at her even, the way he'd seen the Joker do, anything at all to get her to _hurt_ him, to stop being so goddamn caring and to start treating him like the other Arkhamites did – that at least would have been something he could understand and would have known how to handle. He'd had plenty of exercise in that, after all. But she continued to treat him in her overly familiar and pseudo-friendly way.

"Here, I saved this from my dinner plate. Hope you like spinach. I hate it, so today's your lucky day."

He hated her. She was just as insane as the clown.

"Aren't you glad I thought of you?"

He hated her – so when did he come to empathize?

It couldn't have been the bruises that peppered her arms and the side of her face; it couldn't have been the times he witnessed the clown smack her or throw her into a table; it couldn't have been the times she saved Jason from a beating by taking it herself.

He'd been in too much pain at the time to notice anything, be it kindness or cruelty. And even if he did notice, he refused to acknowledge any signs of her abuse. Or her well-meaning attention that didn't feel well-meaning at all.

"I'm not gonna let him touch you anymore," she said and he flinched when she wiped the blood from his mouth. "My boy."

He should have been suspicious. Should have suspected this was just a ploy of theirs, that Harley was in on it and not acting alone, even acting against Joker's order. At least he should have remembered she was delusional. But something must have chipped his armor and broken through. He was so tired, so in need of relief from this pain.

Once he lost hope that Batman would come looking for him, there was no point in holding out any longer.

He wanted to believe that there was at least one soul on this planet who still cared whether or not he lived, even if she was his enemy. (Used to be his enemy? It became too hard to tell in those days.)

So when she turned on him, too, that last piece of humanity inside him cracked. The value of lives ceased to matter because his was worth nothing.

He'd thought Harley had meant it when she said she thought of him as her son.

"He wants you to be his," she said over the rush of water in his ears. She held him up by his drenched hair only long enough for him to gasp in air and for her to whisper her excuses before she drowned him again. "And he said it had to be me, that I was the only one who could make this happen. Who could truly make you mine. I'm sorry, but it's the only way."

She didn't give him the impression of being sorry, but by that time, he was beyond caring.

He just wanted everything to stop.

* * *

He wonders if he's dead. Everything is black and the pain is suspiciously absent. He must be dead.

Except, his muscles are tight and uncomfortable, and he feels like he's been put through an emotional wringer. Sweat is rolling down his cheeks.

It was only memories. Memories turned nightmares, but memories nonetheless. They can't hurt him any longer. (His pounding heart would like to disagree. It was too real, as if he'd been right there again, tied up and beaten to a pulp.)

He tries to shift but cannot move.

A spike of panic tries to claw its way through, based on the nightmare memories that have been chewing him over, but he tamps it down.

_Think, Todd. You can get out of this. You're bound but you don't feel pain. Your head is clear, not woozy, so there should be no drugs in your system to slow you down. What is the last thing you remember?_

Harley.

No, pain.

No. Harley, weeping over him. Harley, ready to welcome him back.

_Why don't you feel pain?_

She did seem earnest in her distress over Jason. But why tie him up? Possibly so he wouldn't run before she had the chance to talk to him. Also possibly so he wouldn't hurt himself. ( _Wouldn't hurt her to pay her back for all the damage she inflicted upon you. But you can work this out, right?_ )

Still, he can't rule out anything. Does he have information she might want? resources? He might have had those, before, but not any longer.

Whatever she wants with him, Jason is not afraid. She has already done her worst. He has survived the two most hellish years of his life under her thumb and that of her beau. He has been broken and remodeled, and broken again. He may be all fractured pieces and hot glue, but pressure will not be his downfall. There's nothing left of him to grind to dust.

Most importantly, he's no longer that naive child waiting for Batman to save him.

Batman is dead, and Jason has to save himself. What else is new?

His surroundings, for one. They're clean and sparse, but decorated with colorful streamers. Confetti is littering the floor, and out of the corner of his eyes, he can see a table laden with cake and candles and more colorful cutouts.

Despite himself, his stomach flips. This scenario reminds him of the time Joker celebrated Jason's "anniversary" with him, the day he'd fallen into the clown's hands. Among his gifts: a concussion, candle burns, and food poisoning.

He hopes Harley's idea of a fun celebration is different.

The woman in question, as it happens, is curled up by his feet, leaning her head with the party hat on it against his knee, chewing on the party horn in her mouth and idly flipping through a comic book. It reminds him of the times she used to read him children's stories to make him fall asleep.

He tries to make his throat work but only a few retched dry sounds make it out.

Her head jerks up and her party horn falls to the floor the moment she sees he's awake.

"I'm sorry for all this, Junior," she says and loosens his bonds before he can demand she do just that. The ropes slither down his arms to curl over his thighs and further down to the floor. "I needed to make sure you wouldn't send my guys to the hospital again. You sure went at it after I fixed you all up."

She grabs a glass of water and makes him drink it, all the while drowning him in her words.

"Not that any of them would go, the way prices are looking these days. You know how good health coverage is in our line of work. You'd have to have been Pengy's lackey for twenty years before you'd be offered a good deal."

This is already so familiar: she helping him drink, helping him calm down by carding her fingers through his soggy strands, rearranging the party hat he also appears to be wearing. Her scent alone is enough to soothe his nerves. Anger licks at his insides at finding out he would still react to her that way, even after what she has done to him.

The glass shatters as he throws her against the nearest wall. The streamers there rustle like leaves.

"You let him break me," he growls, voice not his own. She made him think she was the only one he could trust, the only one who wouldn't hurt him, but then she turned around and took that away, too. " _You_ broke me. Don't think we're friends."

Her face falls, but she denies nothing. Instead, she takes him by surprise by winding her arms around him. 

She is soft and warm and fragile against him, like he could crack her into pieces if he held on too tightly.

"It's okay, Junior," she whispers. "He can't hurt you anymore."

Jason exhales shakily and pulls the party hat off, letting it drop to the ground.

Not a word about herself. Jason is not the only one the Joker hurt. But her blind love for him won't let her see that.

It makes him seethe again with the wish of having killed the Joker himself. Or to at least have been around to bear witness. It's hard to believe he's dead if his body had been conveniently cremated. (It was the right choice, Jason knows, given the kind of crazies who might have wanted to resurrect the Joker – present company included – but Jason would feel better if he could have made sure himself that he was dead, preferably by sticking a knife into him.)

"Did he kill him?" he asks.

"Did who kill who? JFK? MLK? Malcolm X?"

"Batman, did he kill the Joker?" 

Because that's the real question, the one that has been burning inside him ever since his vendetta had been foiled and Bruce ended up dead the same night. ( _You still don't believe that he's dead, or that he killed himself. Same rules apply._ )

He had looked up footage of the incident, but the only videos available were of Batman carrying the Joker out of Monarch Theatre, from various different angles. None from the inside, to show him what happened.

He thinks he might have been able to forgive Bruce if he had killed the Joker to avenge Jason, as slim as the chances may be.

Harley's face screws up into a snarl. It's quite the fearsome image, no matter her stature.

"He could've saved him," she says with a strange timbre in her voice. "He could have saved my puddin'. Said he even wanted to, but did he? He let him die, like an animal."

Jason's head falls back and a drawn-out breath escapes him. What to make of this? It's not a definite answer, but by the sound of it, Joker had died not because Batman had wanted him to, but because he had been unable to stop it. 

_Why, Bruce? Why would you want to help this creature?_

_Who would have had to die to make you see what a wasted existence he had been? Were those children not enough? Were the videos of my torture and my staged death not enough? What would it have taken?_

"I'm so glad he's dead, Junior," Harley's words drag him out of his own hateful thoughts into hers, "because if he wasn't, I'd be killing him myself right now."

She buries her head into his shoulder and begins to sob.

He's at a loss for what to do. After Wayne Manor exploded and he decided to seek her out for whatever reason he might have had (to find out the truth, to kill her, to make her pay for what she did), he wouldn't have expected he'd end up letting her cry against him. That would have sounded absurd. But he'd only been focused on his pain, not hers.

He hadn't considered anyone _could_ be mourning for the clown, because they shouldn't be. The world is better off without him. Only Harley doesn't see it that way.

"But you're back with me now," she says, rubbing her eyes. They're smudged and red and liquid when she looks at him, when she grabs his head with both hands and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. "You're the only good thing I have left in my life."

Jason is dumbfounded. He had forgotten what fondness feels like, or tenderness, if he ever knew. He hadn't experienced much of it in his life.

"I'm so sorry for what I did to you," she says and starts sobbing again. "It's just, I hated you when I noticed he liked you better than he liked me, and then I hated myself for hating you, because weren't you his gift to me? How could I hate you? You're my precious boy."

She looks at him then, lost and lamenting, tears streaming down her face, as if she were imploring Jason to – what? forgive her? tell her it's all right, he's over it?

"I was so jealous at first. But when you fell into my hands I could finally understand what he saw in you. I could understand what he'd given me."

"You're so damaged, lady." His fingers clamp around her arms, quivering with suppressed emotions. Fact is: he's not over it, but he gave Bruce another chance readily enough, so why not her, while he's at it, giving out free-passes for anyone who says 'sorry' convincingly enough.

"And you're not?" Harley is quivering too, but with suppressed laughter. It's breaking out of her.

"Whose fault is that?"

"I'm sorry he ain't here anymore," she says, a lot more sober now, but he doesn't care what she has to say about the Joker. "I know he meant something to you. But he's abandoned you once, and now he did it again. And look where we're both at."

 _Bruce. Yes, he abandoned you again. Just after he'd promised to help you. And yes, look where you're at: in a crazy woman's arms, hoping_ she'd _fix you._

"You can't even take your revenge on my puddin' anymore," she says and Jason starts. That is not something he'd have expected her to say. " _He_ took that away from you. Then he took away the chance for you to kill _him._ Just as he took it away from me."

Jason stumbles backwards, away from her hot tears and her poison tongue. He didn't come here to be psychoanalyzed, even if it's true what she says, he can't, but he also can't scrape off the loyalty he still feels for Bruce despite everything. He might have been thinking what she just said out loud, may have planned for it to happen, but to actually hear those same thoughts come out of someone else's mouth makes them sound offensive somehow. Traitorous.

Perhaps his last encounter with Bruce has damaged his head irreparably. After all, he did take up the Batsymbol after that, in a lapse of judgement more earnest than when he created the mockery that is – was – the Arkham Knight.

"Stay." She snatches his hand, curling her fingers around his, loosely enough to let him think he has a choice in allowing this to happen. And yeah, he could easily draw his hand back, break the contact, break any sort of connection between them by simply turning his back on her and walking out the door.

But he just stares at their joined hands.

"Please. I can't lose you, too."

Back when he was training with Slade, he'd insisted they spar empty-handed and without protective padding, as close to a no-holds-barred match as they could come. How he'd relished the impact of naked fists and limbs on his vulnerable body. He'd chalked it up to a perverse desire for pain the Joker had instilled in him, and perhaps it was, but there's a deeper truth to it: Jason craves the blunt intimacy of touch.

It's something that must have been lacking in his life. Else, why would he feel its absence so absolutely? Willis and Cathy, Bruce and Dick and Alfred, Harley and Joker – "family" had always equated to neglect or disappointment, physical intimacy to broken bones. 

Perhaps there's no fixing Jason anymore. Fractured pieces and hot glue, that's all he is.

But at least he's in good company.

"What are you suggesting?" he asks, ready to talk business, if indeed that's what she's offering.

Harley's eyes and her entire face light up. She squeezes his hand. "We can, I don't know, make Gotham ours. Everyone's in jail, no one's fightin' for it, and my guys have been itchin' for some action. It's perfect."

It sounds like something he might consider. He could use some manpower now that his own militia has either scattered or been rounded up by the GCPD. Some of them might even have deserted. They had been loyal to a fault before the operation, but Jason is not certain how they feel about a leader who doesn't display that same quality and abandons his cause and his men shortly before the end.

With Harley's goons, he could at least break his men out of jail, those who still want to follow him. He'd have to secure his weapons stashes, too, make sure none of them have been raided or blown up.

"You sure don't seem to be growing tired of trying to take over Gotham."

"Oh no, that was mostly just playin' around." Harley grins. "But what else is a girl to do with her time if not lead an army to wreak havoc on a city that wronged her?"

"Okay," Jason says, taking his hand back and crossing his arms in front of his chest. "But if we're going to do this, it'll be under one condition."

Harley perks up, all seriousness displaced with playfulness again. "Ooh, you're making me curious. What's that?"

"We'll do it my way."

"What's 'your way'?" She looks dubious, head cocked, fingers forming a question mark.

"Whatever I say goes. If you can't listen, you're out. That goes for your men as well."

"Ooh, I'm getting all tingly inside." Harley wiggles her fingers before throwing herself at his arm and smiling up at him coquettishly. "I like a guy who knows what he wants and how to get it. I'm in!"

Jason's not sure how he's going to enforce it yet, especially with men lacking in discipline such as Harley's followers, although he may have an idea.

"But first, a condition of my own!"

Jason frowns as Harley jumps up and runs toward the door to unlock it.

"Let's invite the guys in for your Welcome Home party!" She produces another party horn from a hidden pocket and blows it. "I'm sure they're all dying to get to know you."

Jason rather expects them to request a rematch, maybe break some of Jason's bones to get even.

"Since you're their new boss now an' all," she says and toots the horn again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eager to hear your thoughts. Are you still reading this? Did you just discover this and hope I haven't abandoned it yet? Want to prompt me side-stories that will hopefully not take a year to write? Let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Seduce & Destroy" by Otep.
> 
> You can check the [a fool's legacy](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/tagged/a-fool%27s-legacy) tag on my tumblr for updates.
> 
> For those who are interested in this sort of thing, I'm in the process of creating [a spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/crookedspoon/playlist/1F5ys0MZGtApLeNyGoI9Kp) for this project. Also, this is my 150th DCU fic-thing. Thanks to everyone who's ever read any of those. :')


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